


Sweetheart of the Sun

by lady_ragnell



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M, Team Gluttony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4807376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_ragnell/pseuds/lady_ragnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The princess orders a sword from Arthur's forge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetheart of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flammablehat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammablehat/gifts).



> Written for the lovely **Carly** on her birthday. I hope you enjoy it, bb!  <3 I originally wrote it for the last week's challenge and then I wanted to clean it up a little for you.
> 
> **Warning** for past character death.
> 
> Title is from Thomas Hood's poem "Ruth," which is rather agrarian for this fic but which nonetheless struck me as a rather Gwen poem.

The princess comes to Arthur's forge the first day he lights the fires.

“I'd like to order a sword.”

Arthur wipes his brow and puts his bellows down. The Pendragons' forge hasn't had a royal patron in a long time now, and of the family, Princess Guinevere seems the least likely to come, yet here she is. He supposes Morgana might have recommended it, but even for someone as kind as the princess, it would take more than a recommendation from a former handmaiden to come here. “From me, your Highness?”

“I think it may be time to lay down family squabbles. And your sister is dear to me.”

“Very well.” She still hasn't come in further than the door, unsure of him or worried about her fine gown. Arthur wishes it were the latter but he doubts it. “What kind of sword would you like, then?”

Her smile is just as bright up close as it always seems from afar. “The best you've ever made.”

*

Guinevere returns to the forge nearly every day. At first, Arthur thinks it's a sort of duty. She doesn't check in because she believes he needs reminding to do his work, but because she's trying to visibly mend ties between the castle and one of the best-known tradesfamilies Camelot has, their ancestors working the land long before the first King Thomas took the throne. It's kind of her, when his father was the one to do the damage, and when she must have heard stories of him from Morgana.

“You love the swords,” she says the fourth time she comes, and Arthur blinks and looks up from testing the balance of the one he's holding. It isn't hers, but she's stayed to watch him anyway. “You take care with the rest, but you love the swords. Do you fight?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I'm Morgana's brother. Do you think she learned from our father?”

Guinevere laughs, and then presses her fingers over her mouth like she's not sure if the grief is too fresh to allow for laughter. “Did you ever wish to become a knight?”

Arthur puts the sword down. “Doesn't every boy, sometimes? Your sword will be ready in a week, your Highness.”

She nods, as though she's understood something he didn't intend.

*

“How's the balance?”

“Good.” She smiles and adjusts her stance. He nods, and he sees her eyes flick to him as he does it, but she doesn't mention him watching her balance. “Wonderful.” She makes a few blows in the air, precise, and then turns to him again. “Is it the best you can make?”

“It's the best I've ever made,” Arthur says, stung.

“That's not what I asked.” She has a scabbard of her own, much finer than the plain leather one he bartered out of the tanner for half a bucket of nails, and she slides the sword home. “It's lovely. Thank you. Make me another, please.”

Arthur could take offense at that, but he can see the challenge in her eyes, and it's been a while since he took a challenge. “As long as you give me coin, your Highness, you can commission anything you like.”

“A sword, then. The best you've ever made.”

*

The day Guinevere tries her third sword, she kisses him.

“We can't,” Arthur says when she pulls back, and for the first time, some of the light goes out of her face. “You're a princess. Princesses and blacksmiths ...”

“You may worry more about my position than I do.” She puts her hand on his arm. “Arthur. Did you kiss me because I'm the princess?”

“Of course not, your Highness.”

“I didn't kiss you because you're a blacksmith, either.” Her smile is brighter again. “You might call me Gwen. I'd like to call us friends, if I may.”

“Guinevere,” he compromises, and he knows a battle when he's lost one.

*

It's a gorgeous sword. It fits perfectly to her hand and sings through the air when she moves. Arthur can't make a more perfect sword. Few swordsmiths could, and that's not pride speaking.

When she asks if it's the best he can make, her usual teasing smile on her face, it takes him a moment to understand her intake of breath when he says “Yes.” The game's over now. No more excuses.

He expects Guinevere to make him some awkward goodbye, and for increased custom from the palace, which he's already had some of, with the princess at his forge so often.

Instead, she kisses him again. This time, he doesn't ask her to stop. If it's a goodbye, he'll take it, everything she offers him. “Douse your forge, if you like,” she says, a breath against his mouth, and Arthur does as his princess asks.

*

The air is humid with the steam that rose from his forge when he dumped his water unceremoniously to squelch the flames, and he'll pay for it tomorrow, but now he has Guinevere on his bed, a pallet not fit for a princess, not fit for any woman he cares about, but she's looking up at him like there's nowhere she'd rather stay.

“I can't … you'll have a husband,” he says, a weak protest when she's already naked and glowing and smudged with soot from his fingers. “But perhaps I can do something else.”

“I trust you.”

Arthur does his best to be worthy of her trust. He's as gentle as any princess could deserve, and he keeps his work-roughened hands from between her legs as much as he can, though she arches when he dares touch them to her breasts. He ruts against her like an untried boy, but between that and their hands, he manages to bring her to a peak, breathing in her sweat, before he turns away to come himself, her hand wrapping around his even if he won't risk her falling pregnant.

The sun is falling across her when he looks back, and she's glistening in it, no hint of worry or guilt on her face, just something he doesn't dare name. “I'd like to commission a sword,” she says, when she sees he's paying attention.

“I've given you the best I have.”

“One to match it.” She sits up, their skin sticking together where she leans on him, and uncurls his hand from its loose fist, touching the calluses gently. “One to fit a man's hand, this time.”


End file.
